


The Making of Kings

by Reavv



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassination, Bigotry & Prejudice, Gen, Multi, Physical Disability, Politics, Rebellion, Slavery, Tevinter Culture and Customs, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:42:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8676790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reavv/pseuds/Reavv
Summary: The child is born deformed. One leg shrivelled and misshapen, curled in on itself, one eye milky and blighted by a starburst of broken blood vessels. It doesn't cry. The father takes one look at it and tells the midwife to drown it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for Tevinter society, prejudice towards elves, slaves and physical disabilities. As well as too many damn ocs.
> 
> Don't worry, Dorian will get actual speaking roles soon. As well as the other canon characters.

The child is born deformed. One leg shrivelled and misshapen, curled in on itself, one eye milky and blighted by a starburst of broken blood vessels. 

It doesn't cry. 

The father takes one look at it and tells the midwife to drown it. 

"But—" 

"You would defy me?" He asks the sour faced old woman. 

"Of course not, my lord," there's a sarcastic tilt to the way she says his title, "it is just that the birth was difficult on your lady wife. Even if she makes it the night there's no guarantee she will be fertile again."

The midwife doesn't need to say any more. As the first born of the first wife, no other child will be able to inherits its destined place in the family. Even if he sires another, they will not be able to inherit the estate or the lord's title. Not if it is by a different woman at least. 

The law was created to cut down on kinslaying, and rivalries between siblings and bastards. Only the first born inherit, and there is only one first born. 

He grits his teeth.

"I have no need for a useless child. Tell no one that it lived through the birth. It was dead in the womb, no matter how hard it's heart beats now."

He hesitates. 

"If my wife doesn't make it, I shall just take another. One who can bear me a true first born." 

The old woman's cloudy eyes narrow, but she doesn't argue. She picks up the still silent bundle and starts a slow shuffle across the darkness of the birthing room. 

The father is already turning away, to go back to matters of the estate, or perhaps the quickening murmurs of war in the eastern province. 

He doesn't feel the knife that slits across his throat. 

The midwife doesn't even stop, continuing as his death gurgles splash across the night. 

"Long live the king," she mutters solemnly to the child in her arms.

—

Dorian Pavus is born 9:11 in the age of Dragon, to a sickly mother who dies four days later. His father is missing from the house for four weeks before authorities declare him dead, supposedly from lyrium poisoning. Those who can read in between the lines know that it was murder, but no charges are ever laid. 

The household, mostly elven slaves or human soporati, takes care of the baby. For a while, the fact that he doesn’t have parents isn’t even noticed, and indeed had they lived he still would have been nursed and raised by the same people. 

Of course, it doesn’t last. 

“The child needs proper guidance! It would be improper for the noble house of Pavus to be molded by slaves!” The voices in the Magistarium rise up in accord, but it is obvious that they all have different ideas on who exactly should be looking after the young lord. 

“As founders of the circles most prestigious school of—” 

“Our family has a history of longstanding honor and magic mi—”

“Pox! You couldn’t find the Fade if you were bleeding on it—” 

“What theses fools are not taking into account is—”

“It should be my family—”

“No, the Caesvalli would—”

“Enough!” 

The clang of the Archon’s staff on the echoing floors silences the rest of the rabble, arguing neighbours turning sheepishly towards where the man sits in boredom. His dark eyes narrow out at the blatant greed and arrogance that bleeds out into the room. 

“I refuse all offers of adoption. As ward of the state, and last of his line, the law clearly states that no other family should take over his affairs or his seat in the Magistarium,” he drawls out, eyes picking out those who wince clearly at his words. A sort of spiteful cheerfulness falls over him at the knowledge that he doesn’t even have to work at putting them back in their place. 

“Surely we cannot let the boy stay tethered to a house manned only by slaves and servants?” one foolish voice rings out. 

The Archon scoffs.

“All your children are raised by slaves, what does it matter? When he shows signs of magic we just need to send tutors.” He props his head in one gloved hand and narrows his eyes on the crowd. Most of them are power hungry, or blood hungry, or money hungry. They see the child as a tool, or a sacrificial lamb upon their own crest. The Archon doesn’t morally oppose, but he hasn’t gotten where he is by letting others have power. 

He has no use for a crippled boy himself, but he won’t let the weak and greedy get him either. If he must be a tool, at least let him be a blunted one, turned towards academics and not politics. His attention turns towards one mage in particular, who has been observing the proceedings with the air of a slightly amused scholar. 

“Of course, if someone wanted to help the young Pavus, despite his...disfigurement. Well, a patronage is always an option. You have a son just about to be born don’t you, Gereon Alexius?” 

The mage in question looks up from his studied perusal of the court documents, and straightens in his chair. On his other side, Maevaris Tilani snorts and muffles her chuckles into her fist as the other Magisters complain—loudly—at the Archon’s words. 

“Just about,” Gereon agrees, slowly. His eyes are narrowed in thought, and no doubt he’s trying to look for the plot in the sudden gift. 

“And you were friends with the late Lord Pavus, were you not?” the Archon continues, but doesn’t wait for a reply. 

“Considering how low a claim the others here have, or how unsuitable—” he glances towards Maevaris Tilani and ignores her arched brow, “—most of your families would be for a new child, unless someone else can prove a better claim than I relinquish voting rights and education to the Alexius family.” 

He bangs his staff on the marble floors and sweeps out of the room before the noise of the outraged Magisters gives him a headache. 

—

The Pavus estate is more like a small village, with it’s own outbuildings for the free workers and a completely separate slave quarters. It has sprawling gardens, an impeccably-kept stone facade, and a well-maintained stable. It’s hard to imagine that it’s on the lesser side for Tevinter estates. 

It still requires a large, diverse household staff however, and even in the event of the late Lord’s death the running of the household must go on. That the late Lady perished in the night, and that their sole master is a few-days-old babe matters little. 

“This feels rather rushed,” Veriath says with distaste, shaking her flour encrusted hands and sighing when a quick glance at the clock tells her it’s almost time for the baby’s afternoon milk. There’s a row of bottles waiting to be cleaned on the counter, along with the donated milk. In the morning their young master is fed by a wet nurse, but the medicine required to keep the babe out of distress needs to be mixed by hand in the afternoon. 

Something that falls onto the shoulders of the kitchen staff, for some reason or another. 

“A Master’s death is never rushed,” one of her fellow assistants says, a dark look on his face as he chops vegetables with enough force for her to feel it from her position on the other side of the counter. 

“Sami, really,” she hisses, a quick glance telling her that no one is watching but her heart races anyways. Most of the staff is loyal, she knows, to the cause. Quite a few of them know that the late Lord was not killed in a lyrium accident, but talking about it even in the relatively safety of the kitchens is sloppy. 

“What,” Sami barks, eyes hot and angry, “you disagree?” 

She shakes her head and pointedly draws her eyes towards where they stock the herbs. Quite a few of them are poisonous to human bodies. No doubt if a few more years had passed and nothing changed she would have taken her luck on the run. 

“I meant the funeral preparations,” she says instead. 

“Well it’s not like we can schedule it for the proper two weeks of mourning, not with the state of the body even under stasis,” Hagmil, one of their human workers, says as she ducks under the wooden doorway of the kitchens. The perpetual heat of the ovens slicks her brow from one second to the next and she grimaces down at the package in her arms. 

“Meat for the feast,” she shrugs, and walks farther in towards where the roasting pit rests. 

“It’s time for the young Master’s evening meal, by the by,” she calls back towards them just as she rounds the bend and disappears from sight again. Veriath sighs. 

“I’ve got it,” she says at Sami’s dark look towards the bottles. No reason to inflict the bitter man on the babe, innocent as he is. 

Luckily the preparation of the milk is simple and quick compared to some of the meals they’ve had to slave over for the Masters. She boils the water for the bottle and sets about mixing the tincture that will keep the pain at bay as well as hopefully correct some of the muscle misalignment. There’s not a whole lot elfroot and embrium can do for something that isn’t an injury, however, and her knowledge of medicine is restricted to colds and aching joints. 

Once prepared she hangs her apron on the hook by the door and waves to her fellows, sighing as the cool air of the mansion hits her just out the door. Gillia, the head cook, nods to her from where she’s sorting inventory by the stockroom. 

It takes five flights of stairs, three hidden passages, and then a long walk down the Gold Hall before she arrives at the nursery. A knock at the door that’s answered by a call from inside, and she pushes in. 

Granny, the old midwife and Abelia, one of the maids and the baby’s wet nurse greet her as she walks in. Abelia takes the milk from Veriath’s hands, going over to where a bundle squirms in the cradle. 

The nursery is rather bare, for that of a Lord’s, but none of them are all too sure what else to add. Most of the staff here have grown up in rough cut shacks, or the slave quarters. There’s not a lot of child play going on in either. It won't matter for a few more years, at least, and hopefully they will be able to fill it by then. She’s heard that one of the maids is already sewing a fleet of dolls, so there’s that at least. 

“Well met, daughter,” Granny says with a raspy laugh, patting the wooden stool next to her. The old maid is stoop-backed, half blind and with missing teeth, but she is stronger than most others half her age and her mind is keen. Without her the babe would be dead, and the household in the same constricting grip as always. 

Veriath takes the command as it is and sits down, smoothing her skirts and wishing, not for the first time, that trousers were as easy to sew as dresses. 

“Preparation for the funeral goes well, Mother, and the rumours from the capital say that the Archon has forbidden adoption. Although we will probably be getting an overseer from one of the other families instead,” she reports dutifully. 

In the corner Abelia hums softly, swaying with the babe and the bottle and looking semi-content. It is a strange sight. Slaves are not allowed families, or at least, not in the same way. Babies are taken care of community and usually sold off after a few years. In the kinder household’s a slave might be able to room with a family unit, and even have vows of lesser marriage, but there’s always the threat of being sold hanging over them. 

They can’t be sold now, since their Master is too young to do so and no other has the right, and that gives them some security, for now. 

“Let them come. We have worked around worse obstacles and they cannot be here all the time. There will be time for plans.” 

From the door there’s another knock, and Veriath quickly stands to answer it. Jakeril, the head stable hand, stands there awkwardly with his hat in his hands. He nods her way and walks into the room, eyes catching Abelia’s as soon as he does. 

“Dear?” she asks, tilting the bottle a few more inches so the rest of the milk disappears. 

Veriath leaves them to it, knowing that later tonight there will be more time for plotting. The sisters will be there too, strange and ethereal and with more blood on their hands. For now, she has quail to roast, and bread to bake, and the unending task of trying to keep Sami from killing anyone. 

Life goes on. 

—

This is how it starts: Halward Pavus is not a bad Master, as Masters goes. He is disinterested in blood magic, pays no real attention to his servants, and doesn’t let the visiting lords play games with them either. 

He is not a bad Master, but he is still a Master. Abelia and Jakeril’s child dies from whooping cough that could have been treated had they the means to petition for a physician. By the time the Lord deigns to hear the pleas of a few slaves the child has already long grown cold. They lose a babe, and Thrace their eldest loses a sibling. 

Io and Xanthe, the twin sisters who have been each other’s support systems for all their lives, are threatened with separation when a political ally is charmed by Xanthe’s eyes. Halward is not above bribery when it comes down to it. 

And the old maid, nameless but holding the position of mother for most of the household slaves, aging out of usefulness and destined to be sold off to die at some other Magister’s estate. Who has watched countless elven and human slaves walk through these doors, who’s raised Lords and Ladies alike and who is still relegated towards drudgery. Who’s lost family, and friends, and mentees. Who is tired, at the end of it all, of all the ways in which those under her care hurt. 

They are all tired. Of the indignity, of the disrespect. Of not being people in others eyes. Of not being free.

So when the Lady Aquinea becomes pregnant, and the pregnancy proves to be a difficult one, a plan takes shape. 

They cannot change anything on their own. Too many failed rebellions has shown this; they are powerless under the might of the Imperium. To change anything they would need someone who could. Who could stand in front of the Masters and be free to say no. Who could be powerful, and good, and bend to their words so that no other child dies from lack. So that no families are split, no freedom strangled for others’ petty desires. 

They need that child, born to wealth and magic and might, raised by slaves and elves and people who see the world as it really is. Dirt-encrusted under the gold and blood running in the cracks. They need that child to be loved, and to love, and to learn all there is about the world so that eventually, change can come.

They need to make a king.

—

A physician arrives a few days later, the banner man of their so called patron Lord Alexius. His name is Lucan and he is a human soporati who has struggled in competition against the magical healers of the capital. Because of this he has developed an acute and in-depth understanding of the human and elven body in hopes of making up for the lack of magic and spells. When he is told of the extent of young Dorian’s condition he only hums in interest and nods his head. 

The household watches him suspiciously, unhappy with this stranger in their territory after all that has happened. That he is to be in constant contact with their young Lord makes it worse. 

The old maid and Veriath watch him closely, as the two with the most knowledge of the healing arts there’s a certain amount of interest in watching him work, but for the most part it is to guard the babe. They might see treachery where others will see only healing. 

But Lucan behaves admirably towards their ward, treating the babe with kindness and expertise. The muscle relaxant medicine he prescribes do wonders for Dorian’s sleep, and he carefully shows Abelia how to move his limbs so that they don’t cramp or tighten. Of the eye not much is done, although a tincture of Dawn Lotus, Dragonthorn, Milk Thorn and Eyebright seem to help the irritated blood vessels inside. Soon the babe sports only the white milkiness of the blind, and not the red sunburst of broken tissue. 

“Unfortunately, we cannot determine the full scale of his disabilities until he is older. Whether his mind will be sharp, whether the pain will lessen or grow, if there is something larger hiding behind the deformities. But he is eating well, and there are no obvious issues besides, well, the obvious,” Lucan reports after a few days of treatment. 

Veriath nods slowly. She has learned much from the man, considering the way he rambles as he does his work, talking to the babe and to any in the room. He is good at explaining what he does, describing the details of his treatments and not only the end result. He explains that the twisted leg might yet be corrected, to a certain degree, since newborn muscles and bones are so soft that they are easy to re-align. He talks about how elfroot is good in healing potions and soothing teas, but if you want to be precise and actually deal with a problem, herbs like dawn lotus will strengthen, and the properties of milk thorn will encourage blood flow, and embrium is good for inflammation and joint pain. He doesn’t discount the more common remedies either, easily accepting the old maid and Veriath’s own recipes into his own repertoire. 

It is hard to dislike him, but they try. 

“And his magic?” Paloma, one of the maids, asks as she lingers outside the door with her cleaning supplies. Veriath supposes it’s not surprising that that is the first thing the girl is concerned about; she dreams of one day manifesting her own magic and leaving the life of drudgery behind. No one has the heart to tell her she is almost too old by now, and her chances are slim. 

Lucan shrugs. 

“Impossible to say. If they had found a way to determine magical potential at birth there would not be so much uncertainty in life now would there? But wounds of the flesh rarely touch those of the soul, so I don’t anticipate his condition to affect his potential.” 

The old maid snorts and takes the babe from the man’s hands, rocking him gently against the transition of arms. 

“No doubt that is why he hasn’t been completely abandoned by the Magisterium. Even a crippled mage has some worth,” she says with a bitterness that has been worn smooth by age. 

Lucan stays silent, but the expression on his face says he doesn’t disagree. Paloma lets herself be ushered from the hallway and the others disperse. Veriath goes to the kitchens and her endless duties, even with the reduced people to feed. 

Lucan himself packs his instruments silently and leaves the old maid with her burdens, wanted and unwanted equally. 

She hums a tuneless melody down to the sleeping boy. 

“Let me give you some advice, little prince. The world will love you only as long as it has a use for you. Let that use be something that won’t keep you up at night years down the line. Let that use be something you can swallow.” 

—

It takes a month before they hear anything from their Lord sponsor. Gereon Alexius makes no excuse for the absence, but writes cordially enough to Dorian’s keepers. He asks after his health, even though Lucan has sent more than a few missives on that subject, and whether there’s anything the household has need of that they can’t get a hold of without a proper Lord. 

Shamile, their head accountant, and Kriev, the asset manager, write back, detailing a small list of essentials they don’t have the authority to buy. Mostly to do with the continued business endeavors of the family: the Pavus family has made its riches not only in magic and might but in profitable merchantry as well. Things that the late Lord would have taken care of personally. 

Vesta, the head slave, takes care of the rest. She’s been busy with of the minutia of organising a household without a househead, and for the most part she’s let the old maid take care of the details. Now, after finally tidying up the mess that the family’s death has caused, she can go back to the everyday work. 

Reporting to one busy mage scholar or another doesn’t make much difference in her books, but she makes sure to keep the important things under lock and key. She hasn’t survived as long as she has by being upfront with the Masters. 

And she is not so naive as to think that showing loyalty outside the house will keep her alive very long. 

“I am a little disappointed he is not visiting personally,” Io says slowly upon her throne of rotten crates. At her feet Xanthe pries a sliver off of a block of wood she is carving. 

“What? So you can add another tally to your book?” Jakeril asks from the other corner of the room. The pitchfork he uses to move the horses’ hay leans next to him, taller than he is. 

The old maid cackles. She’s the only one sitting on an actual seat in the damp dark of the storage room. In her hands she cradles young Dorian, stolen from his cradle while the maids looked the other way. 

These five might be the instigators, the planners of this nice little rebellion of theirs, but that doesn’t mean they are alone in their efforts. Some would rather not know, would rather not bloody their hands. Some are naive, or innocent: unaware of what the others in the house get up to late at night. 

But there are enough of the household who do quietly support them. 

Veriath shifts about on the ground, bag of herbs in hand and pestle in the other. She doesn’t have a lot of time to work on her poisons and concoctions in the kitchens, but here she doesn’t have to worry about someone accidentally seasoning the pork roast with hellebore.

“I do not think killing another Magister so soon will be easy. At best they will call the young Master cursed, at worst they will find out our efforts and we will all be killed for it.” 

Io spits on the dusty floor. 

“We could kill him only a little?” Xanthe suggests, but from the expressions of both girls Veriath knows it’s a joke. 

“We should be more concerned with the other magisters,” Jakeril says instead, “they will not be satisfied with being shunted off by the Archon in favour of a scholar, even a Lordly one.” 

“The Alexius family is powerful, but even their might will not save us from the machinations of the other families. The wealth of the Pavus family would be a tempting bounty for some, considering there isn’t a mage living in the house to arm the defenses,” the old maid agrees. 

The babe in her arms twitches before settling down again, and she coos at him distractedly. 

“Than we will have to rely on non-magical defenses, and make sure to train the young Master up fast,” Veriath adds, hands working even as her mind spins with ideas. What traps will a mage ignore and fall for? 

“They’ll probably send mercenaries first,” Xanthe puts forward. Io nods her head and taps a finger to her lips. 

“And offers of protection or alliance. It would be smart not to alienate them too much,” she agrees. 

“It is too early to tell how the others on the board will react. We can make our defenses, and send out our spies, but in the end, until the little prince is a little older there is not much we can do,” the old maid interrupts, before too much planning can get done. 

“Tch, waiting,” Jakeril mutters, straightening from his perch. The man is usually patient, and steady, and Veriath can’t help but think the whole affair has affected him more than he lets on. But then, neither him nor Abelia have been the same since their child died. 

“Waiting,” the old maid agrees.


End file.
